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BRIDGES 


By 
CLARE  KUMMER 


All  Rights  Reserved 
Copyright,  1922,  by  Samuel  French 

Price  Fifty  Cents 


New  York 
SAMUEL  FRENCH 

Publisher 
28-30  West  38th  Street 


London 

SAMUEL  FRENCH,  Ltd. 

26  Southampton  Street 

Strand,  W,C.  2. 


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BRIDGES 

BY 
CLARE  KUMMER 


All  Rights  Reserved 
Copyright,  1922,  by  Samuel  French 


New  York 

SAMUEL  FRENCH 

Publisher 

28-30  West  38th  Street 


London 

SAMUEL  FRENCH,  Ltd. 

26  Southampton  Street 

STRAND 


"BRIDGES"  is  fully  protected  by  copyright  and  is  sub- 
ject to  royalty  when  produced  by  professionals  or  ama- 
teurs. 

Permission  to  act,  read  publicly,  or  to  make  use  of  it 
must  be  obtained  from  Samuel  French^  28-30  West  38th 
Street,  New  York,  and  no  performance  may  take  place 
until  a  written  permission  has  been  obtained. 

Professional   and   amateur  rates   quoted  on  application. 

Whenever  this  play  is  produced  the  following  notice 
must  appear  on  all  programs,  printing  and  advertising  for 
the  play:  Produced  by  special  arrangement  with  Samuel 
French  of  New  York. 


5S-ii'iQ 


CHARACTERS 


Penfield  Parker,  Jr. — 

Of  Parker  and  Son,  Bridge  Builders. 

Wallie  Breen His  friend,  also  in  the  office. 

Enid  Birdsall — 

The  girl  who  wants  to  have  a  bridge  built. 


Originally  produced  at  the  Punch  and  Judy  The- 
atre, New  York,  February  13,  1921,  with  the  fol- 
lowing cast: 

Penfield  Parker,  Jr Sidney  Blackmer 

Wallie  Breen Roland  Hogue 

Enid  Birdsall Ruth  Gillmore 


BRIDGES 


Scene  :  The  inner  office  of  Parker  and  Son,  on  the 
eighteenth  floor  of  an  office  building  down  town 
in  New  York  City,  facing  the  river.  At  the 
hack  a  wide  window  looking  out  on  the  sky, 
which  is  deep  blue,  but  changes  to  rosy  sunset 
light  during  the  scene.  There  is  a  door  leading 
into  the  outer  office  r.u.e.  On  wall  r.  a  pic- 
ture of  a  suspension  bridge.  On  wall  l.  a  map 
of  the  United  States.  A  large  table  with  blue 
prints  scattered  about  r.c.  A  smaller  table 
down  L.  against  the  wall;  on  this  table  a  walk- 
ing stick  and  hat  belonging  to  Penfield. 

Time  :  About  five  o'clock  on  a  spring  afternoon. 

On  Rise  :  Penfield  and  Wallie  discovered.  They 
are  in  the  midst  of  a  heated  discussion.  The 
rest  of  the  office  force  has  gone.  The  large 
table  separates  the  arguing  pair. 


Penfield.  (Down  l.  of  table,  not  looking  at 
Walliej     What's  the  matter  with  artists? 

Wallie.  (Above  table)  I  don't  know  what's 
the  matter  with  them.    They're  all  right,  I  suppose. 

5 


6  BRIDGES 

Pen  FIELD.  I  should  say  they  are  all  right — and 
I'm  going  to  be  one.     I  can  paint,  can't  I? 

Wallie.    (Grudgingly)    I  suppose  so. 

Penfield.    I  know  I  can  paint. 

Wallie.  I  know  you  can  build  bridges.  That's 
your  inheritance. 

Penfield.    A  fine  inheritance.     Bridges  to  build! 

Wallie.    Well,  why  not  do  both? 

Penfield.    (With  scorn)   Did  you  say  both  ? 

Wallie.     I  did — I  said  both — why  not  do  both? 

Penfield.  Did  anyone  ever  do  "both"?  Doesn't 
everybody  know  that  doing  "both"  is  responsible 
for  all  the  failures  in  the  world  ?  Don't  you  have  to 
concentrate — to  succeed  ? 

Wallie.     Well — can't  you  concentrate  on  both? 

Penfield.    How  can  you  do  two  things  at  once? 

Wallie.  It's  perfectly  easy — sometimes  I  do  three 
things  at  once. 

Penfield.  I'm  not  speaking  of  you — who  ever  did 
"both"  that  amounted  to  anything? 

Wallie.  Well — I'm  sure  there  have  been  people 
— only  you  get  me  so  excited  I  can't  think  of  them. 

Penfield.    Well,  who?    Who? 

Wallie.  (Brightening)  I've  thought  of  one — 
he  was  just  what  you  are  too.  Pen — an  architect 
— and  he  broke  loose  and  did  something  else — Rus- 
kin.     John  Ruskin. 

Penfield.  Nothing  to  do  with  the  case.  Ruskin 
was  a  writer — pure  and  simple. 

Wallie.  Well,  I  don't  know  how  pure  and  sim- 
ple he  was — but  I  know  he  did  two  things  at  once — 
and  did  'em  darned  well. 

Penfield.  I  don't  want  to  be  an  architect — I 
don't  like  anything  about  it — I  don't  like  blue  prints. 
(Taking  one  up.)  I  hate  the  color  of  'em.  Isn't 
that  horrible — that  blue  is  positively  profane — I  don't 
like  measuring  things.     I  don't  like  to  think  about 


BRIDGES  7 

arches  and  rivets.  I  want  to  paint — that  requires  a 
man's  life.     I'm  perfectly  willing  to  give  mine, 

Wallie.    And  incidentally  your  father's. 

Penfield.  You  don't  think  it's  going  to  kill  the 
old  man,  do  you,  if  I  leave  the  office. 

Wall.e.  It  might.  (Picking  up  long  envelope 
and  document  attached.)  If  your  father  knew  you'd 
got  the  commission  to  build  this  bridge  and  thrown 
it  down,  I  think  it  would  come  pretty  close  to  fin- 
ishing him. 

Penfield.  Well,  I  won't  let  him  know  it.  I'll 
just  tear  it  up  right  now — give  it  to  me. 

Wallie,  (Without  giving  up  the  envelope)  Why, 
Pen,  it's  tremendous — with  all  your  father's  done,  he 
never  had  anything  like  this.  It  puts  you  right  at 
the  top,  why  a  bridge  like  this — it'll  be  in  all  the 
geographies — it'll  change  the  map  of  the  world. 

Penfield.  The  map  of  the  world's  all  right.  I 
wish  people  would  let  it  alone. 

Wallie.  And  there's  something  so  inspiring  about 
it — a  beautiful  bridge,  spanning  a  river — think  what 
it  might  mean  in  war  time — think  of  seeing  an  en- 
tire regiment  marching  across  the  bridge,  in  perfect 
step. 

Penfield,  The  bridge  falls  down  if  they  do  that, 
you  know. 

Wallie.  Well — marching  any  old  way  as  long  as 
they  get  across.  But  what's  the  use — you're  going 
to  give  it  up  and  I  might  as  well  get  out  before  I'm 
fired.     (Lays  envelope  on  table,) 

Penfield.  Fired?  Why,  they'll  need  you  more 
than  ever. 

Wallie.  Who  will?  I  don't  believe  there'll  be 
any  Parker  and  Son — anyway,  your  father  only  let 
me  in  because  he  thought  it  would  please  you.  I'll 
never  be  anything  in  this  business — I  only  love  it, 
that's  all. 


8  BRIDGES 

Penfield.  All?  Why,  that's  the  whole  thing. 
That's  why  I  expect  to  be  a  good  painter,  Wallie — 
because  I  love  it. 

Wallie.  I  know — you  can  afford  to  expect 
things — I  can't.  When  you  paint  your  first  sunset — 
that  lets  me  out. 

Penfield.  I  promise  that  you  shall  stay  in  this 
accursed  place  till  you  have  a  long  gray  beard,  my 
dear  fellow,  if  that's  what  you  want. 

Wallie.    Thanks,  but 

Penfield.  My  first  sunset — it's  going  to  be  one 
that  I  saw  at  Marblehead  last  summer — saffron  and 
mauve — with  the  sky  turquoise  and  some  puffy 
clouds  smudged  in  with  your  finger,  lined  with  rose 
and  gold.  I  don't  know  where  the  rose  and  gold 
came  from,  but  there  they  were 

Wallie.  I  wouldn't  start  in  on  a  sunset  like  that 
if  I  were  you — I'd  try  a  quiet  one. 

Penfield.  I  shall  start  in  on  the  noisiest  sunset 
I  can  think  of.  I'll  go  forth  to  be  a  painter  joy- 
ously, Wallie — with  bells  ringing  and (A  table 

bell  in  the  outer  office  rings.)  Hasn't  everyone 
gone? 

(A  knock  on  the  door.   Enid  opens  it,) 

Enid.  I  beg  your  pardon — is  it  all  right  for  me 
to  come  in? 

Wallie.    Certainly — come  right  in. 

Enid.  I  thought  perhaps  I  ought  to  wait  out 
there  until  someone  asked  me  who  I  wanted  to  see — 
but  there  was  no  one  to  ask  me. 

Wallie.  I  should  be  out  there — but,  you  see,  I'm 
in  here,  quarrelling  with  the  firm  .  .  . 

Enid.     (To  Parker j    Oh,  are  you  the  firm? 

Penfield.     I'm  the  "Son"  part  of  it. 

Enid.  (A  little  troubled)  My  name  is  Birdsall — 
Enid  Birdsall. 


BRIDGES  9 

Penfield.    Well — can  we  do  anything  about  it? 

Wallie.    Any  relation  to  Rufus  Birdsall? 

Penfield.  Excuse  me.  (Introducing  Wallie^ 
This  is  Mr.  Breen. 

Enid.  How  do  you  do.  Yes,  he  was  my  great 
uncle. 

Wallie.     How  splendid? 

Enid.  (Hesitating  a  little)  You  mean — because 
he's  left  me  all  his  money? 

Wallie.  No,  I  didn't.  That's  splendid,  too,  but 
I  meant  we're  sort  of  related — because  he  was  in 
my  great  grandfather's  class  at  college. 

Enid.  Really?  I  didn't  know  they  had  colleges 
then, 

Wallie.  Oh,  yes — they  had  colleges  and  campuses 
and  everything.     Yes,  indeed — why,  yes. 

Penfield.  (Wishing  to  check  the  garrulous 
Wallie. j  Pardon  me  for  interrupting,  but  what 
did  you  want  to  see  me  about? 

Enid.  Well,  it  may  be  that  I  shouldn't  have  come 
at  all — I  mean  I'm  not  sure  that  this  is  the  sort  of 
place  where  one  asks  about  such  things 

Wallie.  Why  of  course  it  is — you  can  ask  about 
anything  here. 

Penfield.  Just  a  moment,  Wallie — what  things, 
Miss — er 

Enid.  Enid — Enid  Birdsall. .  Was  it  all  right  for 
me  to  ring  the  bell  out  there  ?  I  saw  it  on  the  table 
and  I — perhaps  I  shouldn't  have  rung  it. 

Penfield.  Certainly,  it  was  splendid — ^but  that's 
not  what  you  wanted  to  ask  me  about,  is  it? 

Enid.  No.  Why — ^you  see,  I  want  to  have  a  lot 
of  things  done,  by  reliable  people,  and  Uncle  Rufus 
talked  so  much  about  you — about — Parker — ^your  fa- 
ther's name  in  Parker,  isn't  it? 

Penfield.    Yes — so  is  mine — as  it  happens. 

Enid.     Yes — Uncle  Rufus  said  that  everything 


10  BRIDGES 

that  Mr.  Parker  had  anything  to  do  with  was  so 
splendid 

Pen  FIELD.    I  hope  he  included  me. 

Enid.  Your  father  built  a  suspension  bridge 
when  Uncle  Rufus  was  in  Congress — and  that 
seemed  to — endear  your  father  to  Uncle  Rufus. 

Pen  FIELD.  It  probably  endeared  your  Uncle 
Rufus  to  my  father. 

Enid.  I  don't  know  why  a  suspension  bridge 
should  endear  people  to  each  other  particularly 

Wallie.  They  might  have  gone  through  a  lot  of 
suspense  together. 

Penfield.    But  you  were  saying 

Enid.  Oh,  yes — well — you  see,  I  want  to  make 
five  hundred  acres  up  on  the  Hudson  perfectly  beau- 
tiful as  a  sort  of  memorial  to  uncle — and  then  I  want 
to  make  about  five  acres  beautiful,  just  a  little  way, 
for  me  to  live  on — myself.  And  one  thing  I  espe- 
cially want — is  it  all  right  for  me  to  go  on? 

Wallie.    Go  right  on,  it's  fine. 

Penfield.    (Offering  chair)    Sit  here,  won't  you  ? 

Enid.  (Taking  it)  Thank  you.  You  see,  there's 
a  darling  little  island  just  a  little  way  out  in  the 
river — with  trees  and  rocks  and  everything  that  cats 
and  birds  and  little  animals  love.  I  want  to  have 
it  fixed  up  for  my  pets  when  they  get  old.  You 
know  pets  don't  like  to  be  talked  about — they  don't 
like  to  have  people  say,  "Poor  old  Fido,  he  must  be 
nineteen,  he  really  ought  to  be  chloroformed"  any 
more  than  we  do.  And  they  know,  when  people 
say  those  things — well,  I  want  to  separate  them  from 
people.  So  I  thought  of  the  island  and  having  a 
darling  little  rustic  bridge 

Penfield.    Oh,  a  bridge. 

Wallie.  I  should  say  a  landscape  gardener  is 
what  you  want. 


BRIDGES  It 

Penfield.  (Giving  him  a  severe  look)  I  build 
bridges,  don't  I? 

Enid.    Then  we  can  really  talk  about  it? 

Penfield.  Certainly.  I'll  get  a  piece  of  paper 
and  you  can  describe  the  place  to  me.  (Goes  to 
table  for  pad  and  pencil.) 

Wallie.   It  seems  queer  to  do  all  that  for  animals. 

Enid.    Does  it?    But  animals  are  so  wonderful. 

Wallie.    I  know,  but 

Enid.  Animals — are  just  as  nice  as  they  know 
how  to  be — but  we're  not — are  we  ?  I'm  so  sorry  for 
them,  that  they  have  to  be  with  us. 

Penfield.  (Returning)  Now — what's  the  shape 
of  the  island?     (He  sits  on  l.  end  of  table.) 

Enid.  It's  sort  of  long  at  one  end  and  round  on 
the  other  and  hilly  in  the  middle. 

Penfield.  (Sketching  rapidly  as  she  speaks) 
Anything  like  that?  (Showing  her  what  he  is  do- 
ing.) 

Enid.     (Delighted)     Precisely  like  that. 

Penfield.  You  want  some  sort  of  a  building  for 
the  old  pets  to  live  in,  don't  you? 

Enid.  Of  course — and  I  want  a  lovely  fountain — 
like  an  Italian  fountain — with  part  of  it  sunk  in  the 
ground  for  them  to  drink  out  of.  My  idea  is  that 
they  will  become  sort  of  wild — in  a  nice  way — and 
that  they'll  prefer  drinking  under  the  trees,  to  hav- 
ing water-bowls  in  their  house. 

Penfield.     (Sketching)    I  see. 

Wallie.  Jungle  stuff — all  meet  at  the  fountain 
at  five. 

Enid.    Yes — the  way  they  do  in  Kipling's  books. 

Penfield.    Are  these  animals  all  friendly? 

Enid.  Oh,  yes.  The  cats  and  the  dogs  and  the 
birds — there's  no  trouble  about  that. 

Penfield.  But  do  you  think  they'll  remain 
friendly?    Living  in  this  way? 


12  BRIDGES 

Enid.  Oh,  yes — because  they'll  all  sort  of  get 
wild  together,  you  see. 

Penfield.    (Showing  sketch)    How's  that? 

Enid.  (Delighted)  Oh,  how  did  you  do  it  all  in 
a  minute — it's  perfect.  And  that  raiHng — it's  just 
the  kind  of  a  one  Gilbert  loves  to  lie  on — ^you're 
wonderful,  Mr.  Parker! 

Penfield.    (Suspicious)    Gilbert  ? 

Enid.     He's  the  oldest  cat. 

Wallie.  (Strolling  down  R.j  Are  you  going  to 
have  any  pictures  in  the  animal  house?     Because  I 

know  a  very  fine  one  of  a  sunset It's  not  finished 

yet,  but  I  think  almost  any  cat  that  cared  for  a  sun- 
set would  like  it. 

Enid.  Pictures!  Why,  I  don't  want  pictures  in 
my  own  house  .  .  . 

Penfield.  (Looking  up)  See  if  there  isn't  a  book 
on  Italian  fountains  in  the  library  out  there  in  the 
office,  Wallie — will  you? 

Wallie.  Certainly — excuse  me  just  a  moment. 
(Exit  Wallie.  J 

Penfield.  (Seriously,  laying  down  pad)  Tell 
me — why  don't  you   like  pictures? 

Enid.  Why,  I  just — don't  like  to  have  them 
around,  do  you?     I  mean  if  the  wall  is  nice. 

Penfield.    But  why? 

Enid.  They  prevent  me  from  seeing  my  own 
pictures,  I  guess.  When  life  is  wonderful — when 
real  things  are  wonderful  that  we  see  ourselves — pic- 
tures are  disturbing,  don't  you  think  so? 

Penfield.    (Surprised)    Oh — disturbing ! 

Enid.  Yes.  That  was  the  only  trouble  with  Uncle 
Rufus.  He  collected  pictures — they  were  every- 
where. Strange  people's  grandfathers  and  grand- 
mothers and  artist's  pictures  of  themselves  and 
Madonnas  and  ballet-dancers  and  girls  with  oranges — 
and  fish  and  vegetables — you  couldn't  get  away  from 


BRIDGES  13 

them.  One  evening  I  remember  I  sat  by  the  fire  in 
the  library.  It  had  been  such  a  wonderful  day — and 
I  was  living  it  all  over  again.  I  looked  up  and  my 
eyes  rested  on  the  picture  of  a  large  pumpkin.  A 
perfect  pumpkin — you  could  have  taken  it  and  cut 
it  up  and  made  it  into  a  pie — only  the  trouble  was 
no  one  had.  Think  of  my  beautiful  reverie — inter- 
rupted by  a  pumpkin — uncle  paid  thousands  of  dol- 
lars for  it. 

Penfield.  (Disturbed)  But  don't  you  like  pictures 
of  the  sea — and  sunsets? 

Enid.  Why,  I've  lived  by  the  sea,  through  nearly 
all  my  summers.  And  my  eyes  when  they're  closed 
are  full  of  sunsets. 

Penfield.  Strange,  isn't  it — when  you  came  in — 
I  was  just  talking  of  becoming  an  artist. 

Enid.  Oh,  don't.  That  is — don't  if  you  can 
help  it. 

Penfield.     Because  you  don't  like  pictures? 

Enid.   Oh,  no,  not  that — ^but  people  who  paint  and 

write  and  do  those  things Well,  they're  out  of 

it — aren't  they? 

Penfield.    Out  of  it? 

Enid.  Yes — I  mean — they  miss  everything.  While 
they're  painting  and  writing — we're  living.  When 
they  get  through — if  they  ever  do — it's  too  late.  Or 
they're  too  tired.  They  must  be — you  can't  do  both 
— it's  impossible. 

Penfield.  (Looking  at  her  curiously)  But  you 
wouldn't  have  people  stop — writing  altogether, 
would  you? 

Enid.  No — they  have  to,  of  course.  And  it  isn't 
so  annoying  anyway — books  don't  stare  at  you  like 
pictures. 

Penfield.   What  a  horrible  idea — stare  at  you. 

Enid.  Yes — they  do,  don't  they?  Of  course  there 
are  times  when  they  might  come  in — if  you  had  just 


14 


BRIDGES 


killed  somebody  and  looked  up  and  saw  "J^^ith  and 
the  Dagger,"  it  would  be  all  right — or  if  you'd  had 
fish  for  dinner  and  were  thinking  of  it — and  looked 
up  and  saw  a  large  plate  of  mackerel  and  what- 
ever goes  with  it,  by Who  was  the  wonderful 

fish  man? 

Penfield.    Don't.     I  beg  of  you. 

Enid.     No — because  I  didn't  come  to  talk  about 
pictures — we're  not  getting  on  at  all. 

Penfield.  (Looking  at  her  with  interest)  Oh,  I 
don't  know 

Enid.     About  the  plans,  I  mean. 

Penfield.  Oh — well  you  know  it  seems  to  me 
that  before  we  can  really  get  anywhere,  I  must  see 

the  place — actually  see  it.     This  is  all (Refers 

to  sketch)  just  what  we've  been  talking  about — 
"pictures."  It  doesn't  mean  anything — ^how  do  I 
know  there  is  an  island.     I  want  to  see  it. 

Enid.     I  hoped  you  would. 

Penfield.  When  do  you  want  to  start  the  work 
on  the  bridge — and  so  on  ? 

Enid.  I  thought  in  the  fall.  I'm  going  to  be 
away — traveling  this  summer. 

Penfield.    Oh,  that's  too  bad. 

Enid.    Is  it?    Why? 

Penfield.   Well,  only  that  the  best  time  to  build 

bridges  is  in  the  spring They — er — wdl,  they 

seem  to  thrive  better,  somehow. 

Enid.  Do  they  ?  Well,  I  don't  have  to  go  away — 
but  could  you  do  it  this  spring?  You  must  be  so 
busy — I  don't  like  to  ask  you  to  build  my  bridge 
before  you  do  anything  else — ^because  you  must  have 
such  important  ones  to  do. 

Penfield.  I  haven't  anything  important — just  one 
small  commission  that  can  wait.  (Picking  up  con- 
tract and  laying  it  down  again.) 


BRIDGES  15 

Enid.  Well,  when  could  you  come?  Would  to- 
morrow morning'  be  too  soon? 

Penfield.  Why,  no — I  can't  imagine  anything 
sooner — better,  I  mean. 

Enid.  (Taking  card  out  of  her  bag)  Here's  a 
time-table — and  if  you're  not  afraid,  I'll  meet  you 
at  the  station. 

Penfield.    I'm  afraid — but  do  it. 

Enid.  I  say  that  because  I'm  just  learning  to 
drive  my  car. 

Penfield.  (Anxious)  Don't  without  someone 
with  you — promise  me  you  won't — and  I'll  tell  you — 
if  you  could  only  stay  over  until  to-morrow,  I  could 
— that  is,  if  you'd  let  me — I  could  drive  you  up  in 
my  car 

Enid.  Oh,  how  splendid — ^but  would  it  be  all 
right?  I  mean  I  feel  as  if  I  ought  to  ask  someone — 
and  I  haven't  anyone  to  ask  but  you — do  you  really 
think  it  would  be  all  right? 

Penfield.  I  know  it  would.  It  would  be  mag- 
nificent. 

Enid.  You  see,  I'm  all  alone  in  the  world — and 
when  I  say  alone  I  really  mean  it.  I've  no  one  to 
be  responsible  to,  but  Margaret  Hindley,  my  old 
nurse.  She  lives  with  me  and  I  consult  her  about 
everything.  It's  wonderful  because  she's  such  re- 
spectable ideas  and  yet  she  always  agrees  with  me, 
because  she  loves  me  so,  you  see. 

Penfield.   I  see. 

Enid.  She's  such  a  dear — and  she's  a  little  deaf, 
too.  Would  you  mind  if  she  went  up  with  us,  in 
the  car? 

Penfield.  Mind?  I  should  say  not — from  your 
description  she  must  be  altogether  delightful.  (They 
go  to  window,  where  the  glow  of  the  sunset  is  deep- 
ening.) 


i6  BRIDGES 

Enid.  (Seeing  the  sky  out  the  window)  Oh,  what 
a  beautiful  sky.    What  a  wonderful  sunset! 

Penfield.  Isn't  it — now,  honestly,  wouldn't  you 
like  to  have  a  picture  of  it? 

Enid.     But  I  have  it! 

(Enter  Wallie.    They  do  not  notice  him.) 

Enid.  (Looking  out  of  window)  Oh,  look — it's 
changing — it's  getting  pinker! 

Penfield.    (Watching  her)    Beautiful! 

('Wallie  exits,  rings  bell  in  outer  office  and  enters 
again.) 

Wallie.  Well — I  found  a  book  on  Italian  foun- 
tains of  the  time  of  Benvenuto  Cellini. 

Penfield.  Couldn't  you  find  something  a  little 
earlier — or  a  little  later? 

Wallie.    I  might. 

Enid.  (To  PenfieldJ  But  I  must  go — really  I 
must.  I  think  it's  just  wonderful  of  you  to  do 
this  for  me.  But  I  do  think  it's  important  to  have 
bridges  built  right,  don't  you?  Even  if  they're  only 
little  ones. 

Penfield.    Oh,  most  important. 

Enid.  Big  bridges  are  splendid  with  trains  rush- 
ing over  them  and  ships  sailing  under  them — ^but  lit- 
tle rustic  bridges  are — sweeter,  don't  you  think  so, 
Mr.  Breen? 

Wallie.  Sweeter — oh,  yes,  yes — undoubtedly — 
and  then  yours — with  all  the  animals  going  over  to 

the  Old  Ladies  Home Why,  that's  going  to  be 

a  very  affecting  spectacle. 

Enid.  (To  PenfieldJ  Good-bye — until  to-mor- 
row. You  will  hear  from  me  the  very  first  thing 
in  the  morning — we  must  let  Margaret  decide  it, 
of  course — ^but  I*m  sure  she'll  say  yes. 


BRIDGES  17 

Penfield.    When  shall  I  call  for  you? 

Enid.    About  seven  o'clock? 

Penfield.    And  where? 

Enid.    At  the  St.  Regis. 

Penfield.   All  right — I'll  be  there. 

Wallie.    (To  Penfield,  aside)   You'll  be  in  bed. 

Penfield.  In  case  I  should  be  detained,  you 
might  call  up  my  house.    (Gives  her  card.) 

Enid.  Thank  you — good-bye.  I  shouldn't  have 
said  all  those  things  about  pictures. 

Penfield.     I'm  so  glad  you  did. 

Enid.     Good-bye. 

EXIT  Enid. 

Wallie.  (Returning  to  the  original  argument) 
Well — are  you  going  to  build  the  bridge? 

Penfield.  (Ecstatically)  Wallie,  I'm  going  to 
build  such  a  bridge  as  was  never  seen  before — I'm  go- 
ing to  have  roses  on  the  bank  where  the  bridge  takes 
off — those  climbing,  spreading,  rambling  roses.  They 
will  reach  out  to  the  bridge  and  they'll  climb  all 
the  way  across  it — it  will  be  actually  a  bridge  of 
roses 

Wallie.  Then  what  will  you  do  ? 

Penfield.    I'll  go  and  stand  on  it. 

WARNING. 

Wallie.  That's  not  what  the  specifications  call 
for — I  should  think  it  would  look  funny  all  covered 
with  those  things. 

Penfield.    What  bridge  are  you  talking  about? 

Wallie.    The  bridge  for  the  Government. 

Penfield.  Oh — I'm  not  going  to  touch  that  until 
fall 

Wallie.  (Delighted)  But  you  will  do  it  then? 
Hurrah ! 

Penfield.  (Thoughtfully)  After  all,  Wallie, 
there  is  something  wonderful  about  bridges.  (The 
hell  rings — the  door  opens — Enid  enters.) 


i8  BRIDGES 

Enid.  (Hesitatingly)  Why,  the  elevators  have 
stopped  running — and  I  want  to  ask — is  it  many 
flights  down? 

Penfield.  Only  eighteen.  (He  crosses  to  table 
L.,  takes  his  hat  and  stick,  returns  to  Enid,  holds 
the  door  open  for  her.)  Allow  me!  (Exit  Enid, 
followed  by  Penfield.  Wallie  looks  after  them 
with  a  benign  smile.) 


CURTAIN 


THE  REJUVENATION  OF  AUNT  MARY. 

The  famous  comedy  in  three  acts,  by  Anne  Warner.  7  males,  6 
females.     Three  interior  scenes.     Costumes  modern.     Plays  2}i  hours. 

This  is  a  genuinely  funny  comedy  with  splendid  parts  for  "Aunt 
Mary,"  "Jack,"  her  lively  nephew;  "Lucinda,"  a  New  England  an- 
cient maidi  of  all  work;  "Jack's"  three  chums;  the  Girl  "Jack"  loves; 
*'Joshua,"  Aunt  Mary's  hij;ed  man,  etc. 

"Aunt  Mary"  was  played  by  May  Robson  in  Neisr  York  and  on  tour 
for  over  two  years,  and  it  is  sure  to  be  a  big  success  wherever  pro- 
diiced.    .We  Strongly  recommend  it.  Price,  60  Oats- 


MRS.  BUMSTEAD-LEIGH. 

A  pleasing'  comedy,  in  three  acts,  by  Harry  James  Smith,  author  of 
*'The  Tailor-Made  Man."  6  males,  6  females.  One  interior  scene. 
Costumes  modem.     Plays  2%   hours. 

Mr.  Smith  chose  for  his  initial  comedy  the  complications  arising 
item  the  endeavors  of  a  social  climber  to  land  herself  in  the  altitude 
peopled  by  hyphenated  names — a  theme  permitting  innumerable  com- 
plications,  according   to  the  spirit  of  the  writer. 

This  most  successful  comedy  was  toured  for  several  seasons  by  Mrs. 
Flske  with  enormous  success.  Price,  60  Cents. 


MRS.  TEMPLETS  TELEGRAM. 

A  most  successful  farce  in  three  acts,  by  Frank  Wyatt  and  Wfl- 
liam  Morris.  5  males,  4  iemales.  One  interior  scene  stands  through- 
out the  three  acts.     Costumes  modern.     Plays  2J4  hours. 

"Mrs.  Temple's  Telegram"  is  a  sprightly  farce  in  which  there  ia 
an  abundance  of  fun  without  any  taint  of  impropriety  or  anv  ei«- 
me«t  of  offence.  As  noticed  by  Sir  Walter  Scott,  "Oh,  what  a 
tangled  web   we  weave  when  first  we  practice  to  deceive." 

There  is  not  a  dull  moment  in  the  entire  farce,  and  from  the  time 
the  curtain  rises  until  it  makes  the  final  drop,  the  fun  ia  fast  and 
furious.    A  "SSxy  exceptional  farce.  Price,  60  Cents. 


THE  NEW  CO-ED. 

A  eoni«dy  in  four  acts,  by  Marie  Doran,  author  of  "Tempest  and 
Stinshine,"  etc.  Characters,  4  males,  7  females,  though  any  number 
of  boys  and  girl»  can  be  introduced  in  the  action  of  the  play.  One 
interior  and  one  exterior  scene,  but  can  be  easily  played  in  one  inte- 
rior sc«ne.     Costumes  modern.     Time,  about  2  hours. 

The  theme  %J  this  play  is  the  coming  of  a  new  student  to  the  col- 
lege, her  reception  by  the  scholars,  her  trials  and  final  triumph. 

There  are  three  especially  good  girls'  parts,  Letty,  Madge  and 
Estelle,  but  the  others  have  plenty  to  do.  "Punch"  Doolittle  and 
George  Washington  Watts,  a  gentleman  of  color,  are  two  particularly 
good  comedy  characters.  We  can  strongiy  recommend  "The  New 
Co-Ed"  to  high  schools  and  amateurs.  Price,  30  Cents. 

(The  Above  Are  Subject  to   RoyaKy  When   Produced) 


SAiniUEL  FRENCH,  28-30  W©»t  JSth  Street.  Hmw  York  City 

Nbw  aiKi  ExpRcft  Deserve  Catsiofiw  MaiM  Fret  •■  RvvuNt 


BILLETED. 

A  comedy  m  3  -acts,  by  F.  Tennison  Jesse  and  H.  Harwood.  4 
males,  5  females.  One  easy  interior  seer,  ?.  A  charming  comedy, 
constructed  with  uncommon  skill,  and  abounds  with  clever  lines. 
Margaret  Anglin's  bir?  success.  Amateurs  will  find  this  comedy  easy 
to  produce  and  popular  witU  all  audiences.  Price,  60  Cents. 


NOTHING  BUT  THE  TRUTH. 

A  comedy  in  3  acts.  By  James  Montgomery.  5  males,  6  females. 
Costumes,  modern.     Two  interior  scenes.      Plays  2J^    hours. 

Is  it  possible  to  tell  the  absolute  truth — even  for  twenty-four  hours? 
It  is— at  least  Bob  Bennett,  the  hero  of  "Nothing  But  the  Truth," 
accomplished  the  feat.  The  bet  he  made  with  his  business  partners, 
and  the  trouble  he  got  into — with  his  partners,  his  friends,  and  his 
fiancee — this  is  the  subject  of  William  Collier's  tremendous  comedy 
hit.  "Nothing  But  the  Truth"  can  be  whole-heartedly  recommended 
as  one  of  the  most  sprightly,  amusing  and  popular  comedies  that  this 
country  cvi  boast.  Price,  60   Cents. 


IN  WALKED  JIMMY. 


A  comedy  in  4  acts,  by  Minnie  Z.  Jaffa.  10  males,  2  females  (al- 
though any  number  of  males  and  females  may  be  used  as  clerks, 
etc.).  Two  interior  scenes.  Costumes,  modern.  Plays  2^4  hours. 
The  thing  into  which  Jimmy  walked  was  a  broken-down  shoe  factory, 
when  the  clerks  had  all  been  fired,  and  when  the  proprietor  was  in 
serious  contemplation  of   su'cide. 

Jimmy,  nothing  ehe  but  plain  Jimmy,  would  have  been  a  mysterious 
figun  had  it  not  been  for  his  matter-of-fact  manner,  his  smile  and 
his  everlasting  humanness.  He  put  the  shoe  business  on  its  feet,  won 
the  heart  of  the  girl  clerk,  saved  her  erring  brother  from  jail,  escaped 
that  _  place  as  a  permanent  boarding  house  himself,  and  foiled  the 
villain. 

Clean,  wholesome  comedy  with  just  a  touch  of  human  nature,  just 
a  dash  of  excitement  and  more  than  a  little  bit  of  true  philosophy 
make  "In  Walked  Jimmy"  one  cf  the  most  delightful  of  plays. 
Jimmy  is  full  of  the  religion  of  life,  the  religion  of  happiness  and 
the  religion  of  helpfulness,  and  he  so  permeates  the  atmosphere  with 
his  "religion"  that  everyone  is  happy.  The  spirit  of  optimism,  good 
cheer,  and  hearty  laughter  dominates  the  play.  There  is  not  a  dull 
moment  in  any  of  the  four  acts.    We  strongly  recommend  it. 

Price,  60  Cents. 


MARTHA    BY-THE-DAY. 

An  optimistic  comedy  in  three  acts,  by  Julie  M.  Lippmann,  author 
of  the  "Martha"  stories.  5  males,  5  females.  Three  interior  scenes. 
Costumes   modern.      Plays   2]/'t    hours. 

It  is  altogether  a  gentle  th./ig,  this  play.  It  is  full  of  quaint  hu- 
mor, old-fashioned,  homely  sentiment,  the  kind  that  people  who  see 
the  play  will   recall  and   chuckle   over   to-morrow   and   the  next   day. 

Miss  Lippmann  has  herself  adapted  her  very  successful  book  for 
stage  service,  and  in  doing  this  has  selected  from  her  novel  the  mo'< 
telling  incidents,  infectious  comedy  and  homely  sentiment  for  the 
play,  and  the  result  is  thoroughly  delightful.  Price,  O'O  Cents. 

(The  Above  Are  Subject  to  Royalty  When  Produced) 


SAMUEL  FRENCH,  23-33  Weit  38th  Street,  New  York  City 

New  and   Explicit   DescrliJtlve   Catjiogua   Mailsd   Frse   on  Request 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

AN     INITIAL     FINE    OF     25    CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  50  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.00  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


FEB  19   1933 
OCT  25    1984 
JUL  29  1947 


LD  21-50rn-l,'33 


Photomount 

Pamphlet 

Binder 

Gay  lord  Bros. 

Makers 
Syracuse,  N.  Y, 

PAT,  JAN  21,  1908 


VC 


^_       ^^" 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

